in pursuit of tergivers, whelped in loose blankets,
their broader chests cross-strapped,
hard-buckled against the jouncing melody of a sway-backed ride...
ridge-rammed and spurless,
one stops to retrieve
a fallen bolus..ammo for the fringe...
the troupe rear-ends itself...... sprawls, a pile of torqued lance-grips
and unspent cartridges....
......cabbages grow, flower to commemorate the fallen...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem